He's Not There
by chemiglee
Summary: Three ficlets centered around Finn's passing, written from the perspective of Mercedes, Marley, and Tina. Please read with caution. They are sad.


**A/N: Please read with caution. They are sad.**

I. Mercedes

Mercedes cries out. It should be loud enough to rattle the windows out of their frames. Instead, it strangles, half-realized, inside her throat.

She's been there since the beginning, ever since a gangly, awkward quarterback first appeared out of nowhere, from so far out of their social circle. Mercedes remembers how surprised she'd been to find out he could sing. He'd been more than okay. He'd been great.

And, in the years that followed, she'd seen him grow. He'd seen her grow, too, and when you've fought together, united, for so long and so far, you develop a bond, even if it feels like an odd one. There were literally no other circumstances under which they'd ever have been friends.

Mercedes remembers his excitement, after Mr. Schue's second wedding, over bubbly water and greasy spaghetti: _We couldn't have gotten this far without your awesome work at Sectionals._ He'd been so flushed with pride, and she'd replied, smiling: _It wasn't just me and Mike and Kurt, you know_. Their hug had been full of affection and he'd radiated warmth like he'd stolen a bit of the sun and hidden it in his jacket. He'd grown out of that gangly, awkward phase. The _changes_. Oh –

- the changes. And in the meantime -

- an undercurrent of things that must be done flows swiftly through the back of her mind: pick up keys, talk to Mom, talk to her, talk to him, talk to them, go over there and do something for them to ease their burden, help, _do_ something, do _something_ to help. Clean up, cook, welcome guests, something, anything.

Mercedes places a hand over her heart. She imagines the twist in their faces, and the bone-deep ache beneath, just like the one lodging snugly under her ribs. She'd been to plenty of funerals, and cried for those who had passed on; sometimes it was more dutiful than personal, because the relative was one she hadn't known. But this one was deeply personal, and so, it hurts a great deal.

The ache demands to be fed, so she draws in a wheezing lungful of air. In. Out. Her other hand squeezes her cellphone painfully tight. She forgot to press END long after Kurt hung up, so she whispers the rest of the conversation, the part of it she knew he didn't want to hear, the sure knowledge that he's in a better place and looking over all of them, smiling that same goofy, toothy smile.

Her brother pads into the hallway and wraps her in his arms from behind. He's endlessly warm. Strength pours into her body. Her voice grows firmer, more earnest. His chin rests on top of her head and she can vaguely feel his lips moving in her hair. He doesn't say anything. Mercedes knows that he's closed his eyes, and that he's praying, too.

II. Marley

Marley remembers three things.

The memory that swims up to the surface first is that one conversation in his office – Mr. Schue's office, here. She tumbles into a chair, and she can see him there, here, standing behind the desk.

"I'd need a teaching degree." He'd sounded so defeated. His few personal things had barely covered the bottom of that cardboard box, and the choir room had never felt more empty.

"So?" She'd opened her eyes wide. "Go get one."

He'd looked at her, like she'd shot some glorious arrow of truth and hope and staggering light straight into his heart. He hadn't been expecting her of all people to have the answer. Maybe he'd been expecting someone else to tell him to stop wallowing in self-pity. (She'd heard about her, and maybe, too, he'd been expecting her to say it, not Marley. And it _had_ felt as if a ghost had crept in and tickled the back of her neck with her breath.)

That conversation had started out sadly, but she felt, with a small surge of pride, that she'd been able to help him realize his dream, after all.

Then she remembers singing with him, twice. First, the New Directions had sung for Coach Sue, because she'd been so kind (mean, and then so kind), and they'd all wished her a dream of a happy Christmas. The second time was when she showed up to his 9:50 pm rehearsal alone, ashamed, and then they'd sung of dreams while everyone else straggled in, their voices merging in with theirs. That song they'd crafted had the perfect, fragile beauty of a real dream. And, come to think of it, real snow had blanketed the courtyard that time, instead of fake.

Marley's throat closes. The last two times they'd sung together, they'd been with the rest of Glee. Like a family.

He wasn't going to fulfill his dream, after all. That sobering thought brings her back to the wrapped tuna noodle casserole she and her mother had made to feed the folks he'd left behind. It's sitting there in front of her, reminding her of what's coming next. She idly wonders whether someone will pick up where he left off, but the logistics of that, of what was going to happen, now, rush in and cover everything over in steel-grey cloud.

She closes her eyes. It's too early. It's too soon. Everything's too early. Everything's too soon. Whatever's been left behind feels heavy and drags at her footsteps: too heavy, too much. She almost falls asleep. But there's a rustle – so – and she jerks up in her chair, and there he is. It's Jake, dressed in black, and he's smiling at her in that special way, just for her. The clouds move away. He holds out a hand to her, and she takes it, and he helps pull her up. "Let's go."

III. Tina

Tina hears the news quickly, of course. That was a week ago? She genuinely doesn't remember when, or how, or why. (God knew, there was no reason why, other than it made no sense, and that it was inexplicably sad and awful and - ) Everything's a fog. He's gone. It de-magnifies all of her own problems, makes them feel very small and insignificant compared to – to that. And more than that, him, her, his family, they all must be hurting, too, and hurting bad, Kurt, and Mr. Hummel, and Mrs. Hudson-Hummel, and Rachel. _Oh, Rachel_.

She squeezes her eyes shut and thinks of her. Her mind rambles, on and on, and all of a sudden, it's the afternoon of, and she has little notion of how she got there. And for some reason, while she's waiting, it occurs to her, finally, to go log into Facebook. The news is all over Facebook, and maybe that's why she's been avoiding it so studiously; she didn't need to see all the reminders when she was constantly reminding herself.

Logging into Facebook is appropriate. After her parents, and Artie, he'd been the next one to friend her. He'd been really popular, so the fact that he wanted her to be a friend had felt significant, because if he thought she was worth it, maybe she was. Making friends had been easier, after that.

She thinks she remembers messaging Kurt on Facebook: _I'm really, really sorry. I'll do whatever you all need me to do. Please let me know *hugs*_. Was it today? A few days ago? He didn't respond. She didn't actually expect an answer. They were all really busy and they were grieving.

She logs off, leans back in her desk chair, and stares upward, unblinking. She and he had never been super-close friends. Far from it. But she'd always wished him well, in an affectionate, remote sort of way, the same sort of feelings you had for a distant cousin or an uncle you never got to see except during the holidays (and then, she feels a mite of comfort; he was family, after all.) He probably felt the same way about her, too, and she hopes that he felt good things, too. She remembers how happy he looked.

She also remembers being angry, and for good reasons, but now, she doesn't remember why. The reasons are not important. She is not important, not now, when there are people who are closer, people who need her support. (And the fact that she can still remember some of it makes her feel indescribably guilty.)

A soft _bzzzzz_, and her vision clears just enough to read the text: **I'm here**. **Are you okay?**

She types swiftly: _I'm sad_. _I wish I could hug you and make all the sad go away. _

**I'm outside**.

She flies out her bedroom door, down the curving stairs and out and he's there, and she flings her arms around his shoulders (carefully, so as not to ruin his hair) as he holds her close, and she buries her face in his chest and blocks the rest of the world out: too bright, too harsh.

Back on her computer screen, Kurt's messaged her back. Come over tonight. I've missed you. 


End file.
